indication that he’d do his utmost to drag his diction into the realms of the politically correct – whatever that meant.
The important thing was that he shouldn’t dwell on it. It all happened nearly six weeks ago after all. Nor should he allow himself to become so goddamn paranoic.
It wasn’t as if he was your actual sex offender.
It wasn’t as if he’d actually intended doing anything.
And if, just suppose, there had been that itsy-bitsy bit more to the invitation than he was allowing himself to admit, well, for bloody’s sake, he was only human.
But, in the name of God, he’d meant nothing by the invitation. And of this he was virtually, nay entirely, sure.
Besides, contrary to expectation James hadn’t summoned Sheridan to an interim meeting. Indeed he was mildly surprised when the MD greeted him in his usual affable manner at their regular monthly engagement. And throughout the meeting they stuck to the usual agenda of taking each of Sheridan’s magazines in turn and discussing ways of maximizing short and long term yield. Quite plainly the Oliphant woman had seen sense and backed down.
To think, he’d actually lost sleep over things.
To think, his self-confidence had faltered. That at times he’d actually taken to seeing himself in the way he imagined his staff must have – a middle-aged drooler. A man with a priapic, clandestine agenda. A dirty old believer in the impossible.
Then he saw it and shuddered. Behind the magazines and figure sheets was something he couldn’t fail to recognize – his fat, green, twelve-year-old personnel file.
‘You OK, old man?’ asked James, noticing that his interlocutor’s attention was somewhere over the Soho skyline.
‘Sorry, James. Lost concentration for a moment.’
‘A short break’s what you need, old man. Do you the power.’
Sheridan was mortified. He knew the euphemism. Invariably, a short break ripened into a longer one and ultimately matured into the old chestnut: Gone to seek pastures new, on the company memo.
They discoursed some more yet James seemed distracted. Then, with an abrupt wave of the hand, he broke off in mid-sentence and laid a palm on the portentous file.
‘Sherry, Sherry, Sherry, old boy. Aaahh, Sheridan.’
‘What?’ he snapped, suddenly indignant.
‘Well …’ James paused and met Sheridan’s scowl full on. He smiled which caused Sheridan to smile involuntarily. Abruptly he modified the expression to a grimace to indicate that he hadn’t intended the smile. How he loathed the way he instinctively emulated the facial expressions of those in authority. It made it doubly bad that James was younger than him. A good ten years younger at that.
‘Been taking a thumb through your file, Sherry. Couldn’t help noticing that you’re approaching the big four-five.’
That’s right, James, you bastard, he thought. Sack me and you effectively retire me. Nice one, James.
‘So I am, James. Not something I’m particularly overjoyed about, but che sarà sarà and all that.’
‘Rubbish man. A fine age, forty-five. Got the experience, but haven’t lost the vitality. Know what I’m saying, Sherry?’
‘I think perhaps I do, James.’
‘Good. Time for a man to spread his wings a little.’
‘Quite so.’
‘So, give it some thought. I mean, Sherry, come back to me in a month and let me know what you want for your birthday. A launch? An acquisition? Product cards? Hell, man, you may even want to drag us screaming into CD - ROM. In a year or so’s time, I want to see you up on this floor. Earning some serious shekels. Know what I’m saying, man? Let’s have Entwhistle on the board of Monroe-Hastings. Ye gads, man, we must owe it you by now.’
‘Well thanks, James. That really is … I’ve been having a few thoughts … I’ll jot down some … excellent. I’ll do that. Leave it with me, James.’
Nor was Sheridan concerned that he now wore one of those froggish grins that almost has to be wiped away with the hand.
‘Fine. And take a long weekend, man. Hate to say it but you’re looking a bit worse for it.’
‘Yes, thank you. Thank you. I’ll do that. And thank you for the …’
‘Ooh-um, Sherry. While you’re in here. Managed to smooth things over with the lesbo-Trotskyite faction for you. But, you know, old boy, tone it down a smidgen. No more said.’
Sheridan sat with head in his hands until his coffee grew cold. Because his secretary was at home with yet another day of menstrual cramps, he roused himself and collected a fresh one from the automatic dispenser then played with his magnetic paperclip pyramid until that cup also gave up its heat.
He fetched a third and picked up the phone.
First he called his financial advisor and arranged to up his life cover.
Next he telephoned his doctor and made an appointment for Monday morning.
Then he called Interflora and instructed that a magnificent bouquet of red roses be couriered to his wife. The message he dictated was, ‘Expression of affection, one, four, three.’
Traditionally, Friday morning was reserved for meetings with the advertisement managers and editors of his magazines. He lifted the phone to summon Ashby Giles, the least favourite of his managers. Ashby who said yar, instead of yes and absolutely, old boy. Who congratulated him on his employing Helen in preference to the other hounds who had applied. Who consistently defied Sheridan’s smoking ban with cavalier proclamations like, Passive smoking is for wisps. Ashby Giles who was without doubt the man behind his staff’s silent mutiny. Their failure to bid him good morning, their solemn exeunt dead on five-thirty and, of course, their utter lack of motivation and consequently sales.
He pressed the first digit of the extension number but found that he was laughing too much to go on.
‘Sea Cargo Month,’ he spoke out loud, sneering like a child saying cabbage. Then there was Warehouse Product and Service Monthly. And to top it all, Logistics and Freight Distribution Monthly. Sheridan could barely contain himself when he recalled how they’d agreed that the title rolled off the tongue. That it had need-to-read written all over it.
And then there was the business plan he was working on for James. A scheme that would in two years’ time put Sheridan Entwhistle in charge of an on-line warehousing and distribution news and recruitment network that fed directly into the established industry interface.
He opened the folder of the proposal, planning to surge on – but couldn’t. The dream was back. Blow-torching into his consciousness. And it struck Sheridan that never before in his life had he had a dream so vivid and powerful. He shut the folder. Without question this dream had need-to-read written all over it.
Sheridan was in the City or perhaps it was New York or Croydon even,
